


love potion number 9 it isn't, but it will have to do.

by fabricdragon



Series: you're the wrong one, but oh so right [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 4 prompt challenge, Canon Compliant, Challenge 2, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Drunken Shenanigans, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, John "Three Continents" Watson, Kidnapping, Language, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Sex Pollen, Sort Of, Unsafe Sex, Weddings, more or less, mutual dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Jim Moriarty gets word that John and Sherlock are getting married! he returns to London to do something about this (obviously horrible) mistake!  uh... unfortunately things go drastically wrong... or right.Mickie  gave the challenge prompts last time, this time it was my turn:Challenge: kidnapping, mistaken identity, drunk/drugged shenanigans, weddings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



 “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!” Jim muttered as he read the report: Sherlock and John were getting married.

“Tiger! Get my gear, we have to go back to London!”

“What?” Sebastian poked his head around the doorway from the kitchen, “Sir… no.  c’mon, you told me yourself ‘even if I beg, Sebie, no going back to London’ it’s not worth the risk!”

Jim threw a knife into the door frame. “Get. My. Things!”  He waved the print out, “Sherlock and John!”

Sebastian sighed and pulled the knife out of the door frame and eyed it sadly, “That’s gonna take work to get the tip back properly… what about them?”

“They’re getting MARRIED!”

“What?!” Sebastian stalked over and grabbed the paper. “Oh that’s gotta be bullshit, Sir.  Your agent in London has lost his mind! John? Three continents Watson?  If he hadn’t gotten in bed with the loon BEFORE he got married, why would he jump in bed with him now?”

Jim frowned at him, “That voice, that hair, that sexy brain…”

“All of which didn’t cut it before.” Sebastian pointed out reasonably.

“You didn’t see them all over each other!”

“Yeah, I did; I was on the pool roof, remember,” Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Look, Sherlock wandered around the flat naked… he did everything but  try a stripper pole in the living room and John didn’t  do anything more than sneak glances at his ass.  Why would that change now?”

“I don’t know, but by God I am going to find out! Get  my things, pack, we need to be in London for the wedding!”

“Killing them or kidnapping them?”

“I’ll decide on the plane: get moving!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you absolutely certain this is necessary?” John Watson asked for the eleventh time as he adjusted his tie.

“Of course it is, would I put myself through this much publicity if it wasn’t?” Sherlock snapped as he adjusted his cufflinks– unnecessarily– again.

“Gentlemen.” Mycroft nodded as he stepped in; slipping his pocket watch back into his vest– he looked at home in formal wear, of course.

“It’s just the rehearsal, Mycroft; couldn’t you have worn something less formal?” John sighed.

“First of all, no; secondly it hides the vest better than anything else.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, “The best way to hide a bulletproof vest…”

Mycroft smiled back at him, hesitantly, “is under another vest.” He nodded, “although I must remind you that even with the best technology we have, a vest this light is at best bullet resistant.”

John was happy to see a tenuous peace between them, things had been so horrible for so long… figures it would take a serial killer to bring them together after it all.

“well,  let’s make this look good, right?” John nodded and they went out.

John spent most of the rehearsal fighting flashbacks– Mary, a wedding, Sherlock…

Sherlock carried them through, sounding choked up at the right spots, and then declaring that the church was a bit overheated, and helping John into the vestibule for a break until he recovered.

“I’m sorry, John, I really am…” Sherlock said again, rubbing John’s back hesitantly.

“I’ll manage… just… thank God it wasn’t the same venue, eh?”

“Well we had to…” Sherlock paused and changed what he was saying, “Yes. Yes, a good thing.”

John made it through somehow.

Mycroft was Sherlock’s best man, and standing in for his father– if they knew Sherlock as well as John did that would have been a tip off right there– and Greg was standing in as John’s best man.    It was a surreal experience, frankly, but all the other assassinations had been at public venues, and at least half at weddings, so this was the only way they could think of to flush them out.

John dearly hoped they would strike at the rehearsal or on the way home, because if he had to do this AGAIN as a mock wedding….

It didn’t bear thinking about, really.

~

They made it to the rehearsal dinner– Mycroft had arranged it to be catered, and then arranged to infiltrate the catering staff.  Sally Donovan  was trying NOT to look sour  putting out trays– it always infuriated her how EASILY people accepted her as wait staff, or maids, or any menial.  She would have liked to put it down to the F– to Sherlock being petty, but honestly this was an opportunity to  both redeem herself and work with MI5, so in actual fact it was a kindness, and she was grateful– it was everyone else that was the problem.

“Oh God, Someone get the punch set up!” her catering boss groaned.  “You, Mina!”– he used Sally’s cover name– “get the punch set up in the fountain! It should be all mixed, just add the champagne.”

Sally went to get the punch set up and hesitated: this was technically a stake out, and it would be best if no one actually drank anything… she put Ginger Ale in instead…

And that changed everything.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Jim had infiltrated the rehearsal as one of the flower delivery men. It was a tricky thing to be close enough to see a Holmes, without being seen–Holmeses were cunning bastards–but he managed to see enough to be certain that this was some kind of ruse.

 _Mycroft? As Sherlock’s best man?! And Greg Lestrade and Molly nowhere in sight_? Jim snorted. _Not hardly._

He went back into the reception hall to set up the flowers for tomorrow in time to see Sally Donovan pouring pitchers of punch into a drink fountain. _Unless she’d lost her job without my agents telling me, this meant she was here undercover… which just confirmed it was a set up._

Jim helped himself to a glass of punch and texted Sebastian that they could go.

It was pretty good punch; he got a second glass and then ducked out of sight as the ‘wedding party’ came in.

~

Sebastian was carrying in and setting up tables. It was heavy work, and at least one of the delivery men hadn’t shown on time so they were shorthanded.

“Hey,” the guy folding napkins nodded when he was done. “Go on back into the kitchen if you want: benefit of this job is that staff get the extra food.”

 _Food_? Sebastian had been military. _Never turn down food._ The sandwiches were great–mostly the ones where they just didn’t look as good, but were still tasty–and the punch was fantastic. Sebastian spotted Donovan grumbling in a corner, changing into a server’s apron, and raised an eyebrow. _Ah… Some kind of trap?_

He glanced at his phone. _Yup, boss had already called it._

Well, it would look weird if he didn’t stay and eat… Sebastian drained the glass of punch and got another.

~

Sally tried to be calm as she put on the server apron and went out to help the ‘wedding party’ with the rehearsal dinner. In actual fact, it was a good thing that she was out there as one of the servers, but it galled her that it was always the non-white folks that got called on to wait tables.

She threw back a glass of the punch–it tasted just fine with ginger ale instead of Champagne–and went out.

_No snarking at them–stay in character…_

~

Sherlock leaned in close to John–it would be excused as the romantic gesture between partners–and whispered, “Nothing so far, but last time the victims were killed leaving the embassy party.”

“If we have to go through with a ‘wedding’, Sherlock, I swear to God I will beat you to death with my bouquet,” John managed to hiss dangerously while maintaining a pleasant smile.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at them and cleared his throat. “A toast to the happy couple!”

Everyone took a drink of the punch. Mycroft noted with approval that it was not alcoholic… _It had supposed to have been mixed with Champagne?_ He noted Sally Donovan wandering by with a pitcher and called for a refill.

“Good call on the ginger ale,” he said quietly and nodded. _The last thing they needed was anyone getting tipsy._

~

Jim felt hot and uncomfortable. _God, I can’t wait to get Tiger up into the hotel room._ He poked his nose around the doorway, behind a potted plant and watched… He hadn’t seen any of them in person since his “death”, after all.

 _Sherlock was laughing? Actually laughing… and trying to flirt with John? That didn’t look put-on at all. John meanwhile was watching…_ _Donovan? Da fuq?_

Jim frowned and wondered why he felt quite so… relaxed. _Just how much alcohol had been in that punch?_ He hadn’t noticed any…

He shook his head to try to clear it and looked up–Mycroft!

~

Mycroft frowned as he noticed that Sherlock was acting… he was acting drunk. _Ah, of course, play acting the punch was alcoholic: probably a good idea, but…_ Mycroft glanced over at John…

John was NOT play acting the besotted fiancé; he was laughing up at Donovan, who was refilling his punch… and Donovan was smiling at him? Her hand lingered quite a bit too long…

 _Come to that, I feel a bit…_ Mycroft frowned and did a self-assessment. _I feel like I have had about 3 glasses of port_. He looked suspiciously at the punch: half a cup of non-alcoholic punch…

_They’d been drugged, obviously._

He started to call his security team in and looked for a quiet… spot… _That man there behind the décor looked remarkably like…_

Mycroft got up and stalked over to the man, who was shaking his head. He looked up: _Unquestionably Moriarty!_

_But he was dead!_

“Moriarty,” Mycroft reached out and grabbed his arm. “I have no idea what you’ve done–”

Moriarty looked up at him in alarm, and then swayed… what?

“How…” Moriarty tried to pull his arm away. “How did you manage to set this one up, Iceman?”

“Set this… You drugged us!”

Moriarty frowned and slowly closed his eyes. “The punch? I had two glasses…” He opened his eyes slowly. “Not me, Mycroft… I drank it too…”

“What?” Mycroft pulled him in and leaned closer. _His pupils were very large, especially for the lighting in here… He’d always had such expressive eyes._

Moriarty’s other hand came up and Mycroft just had time to realize his mistake–to brace for a knife or a gun–when Moriarty pulled his head down and kissed him.

He was a shockingly good kisser. Mycroft felt himself becoming… unduly distracted.

“I always wanted to do that…” he giggled. “If I’m going to be thrown back in your cells, I can at least say I kissed you first.”

~

Sebastian frowned. He had gotten up to leave and looked over to see two of the staff giggling and making out against the wall and he almost staggered.

 _The punch?_ Was he wrong? The alcohol would have to be damn near flammable to make his legs unsteady… He found himself walking out into the reception, his body following the thought of checking on the targets without the usual caution.

He almost walked into Sherlock. Sherlock plastered himself up against Sebastian. “That is a gun in your pocket,” Sherlock almost purred up at him, “but I don’t care.”

“What?” Sebastian stared at Sherlock. _Flushed, pupils blown black until only a narrow ring of blue showed, lips parted… really attractive, kissable lips._

Memories of watching this man through a sniper scope danced in his memory. He tried to pull himself together. “Thought you were engaged?”

“Hmmm… No, not really. The serial killer seems to have poisoned the punch; I don’t care though, it feels glorious–better than heroin.”

_Oh, hell._

~

How had he never noticed how insanely hot looking Sally was before? Damn…

“You should wear black slacks more often…” John smiled up at her, pouring a refill of punch.

“You should lose the freak sometime,” she said very quietly.

“I really should, but you shouldn’t call him that… He’s a bloody wanker, not a freak.”

Sally giggled and almost fell into his lap.

John gallantly helped her up. “Come on, lets ditch the suits and go have some fun.” He handed her his punch; she threw it back in two gulps.

“I always thought you were kind of… I dunno… boring?” Her eyes raked over him. “You look good in better clothes.”

“Sweaters hide the gun better.”

“I’d love to see your gun…” she smirked.

…

Security came in when check-in time came and went without contact. They found most of the staff either having sex in various corners, unconscious, or staring at the ceiling giggling.

_Tripping balls, the lot of them._

Greg stared around in shock. One of his best men was trying to kiss the MI5 responder. A quick headcount revealed four missing–a very suspicious four: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Sally; probably kidnapped. He set out an all points alert and started checking for any vehicles that had left the premises.

One had: a catering van. You could easily have thrown four unconscious people in the back.

Greg called it in as a priority and prayed they weren’t dead yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> up to the first ~ its "Greg Lestrade and the investigation"  
> after that we get into "what happened to John and Sally?"  
> NOTE: both John and Sally are drugged; neither are fit to consent (or sober at all) although both think they are at the time.

Greg was trying very hard to stay calm. He’d been called away for work just after the ceremony rehearsal–which would look very realistic to anyone observing–with the certain knowledge that they had several MI5 guards on duty, two MET officers–including Donovan–and the target, as well as Sherlock and John, who were all armed and waiting…

He’d come back to the after-rehearsal reception to find that, even though no alarms had gone off and no warnings had been sounded, four highly capable people were missing and everyone had been drugged.

They’d thought the catering van had been used to smuggle the victims out, but then they found it–the driver was making out with one of the florists in the back. _They’d stopped in the middle of the road!_ None of the men had seen anyone else leave the premises, but at least five cars were missing, including Donovan’s.

“If we all live through this, Mycroft is going to skin you all–and I’ll help him,” Greg muttered under his breath before he turned the two-way back on to reiterate the importance of FINDING the missing cars.

They set to work, cordoning off roads and getting samples of everything to the labs. A group of rather scary people showed up from MI6, along with Mycroft’s assistant–whatever her name was today–and took samples directly to some laboratory in London–priority.

It was early morning before Greg got his hands on the report, and while they’d found several other staffers and so on–mostly making out in various corners–the top four missing… were still missing.

“Alright,” Greg snapped into the phone. “You finally gave me a report, now tell me what it MEANS!”

Mycroft’s assistant sighed, “It’s a custom-made drug that is acting a bit like an inhibition-lowering agent, a bit like a hallucinogen, and a LOT like an aphrodisiac; MI6 wants the person who made this shot, or hired–I’m not sure which.”

“So why would the killer–”

“Because it wasn’t meant to do this,” she said tiredly. “As best as we have from the analysis, and from the handful of sober eyewitnesses, the punch was supposed to be made with Champagne, and Donovan made it with ginger ale instead.”

“So… the ginger ale did this?”

“No–the ginger ale saved their lives. The drug has an appallingly synergistic effect with alcohol: one full cup of this punch, if it had been made with Champagne, would have killed most people.”

“Wait… If this was meant to kill them… it’s unlikely the killer kidnapped them!”

“That’s… true…” She paused. “Which raises the odds on their being found alive.”

“Sir!” A young rookie waved at him frantically. “Not one of our reports, but the scanner just picked up an ambulance call to a car off the road? It’s not too far from here.”

“Have to go,” Greg said into the phone, already moving. “They found a car; might be some of ours.”

“I’ll extend the search to people wandering off road. John Watson at least is military; if he was having some kind of flashback…”

Greg almost stumbled getting into the police car. “Anthea, or whatever your name is today… If Sherlock is high, or stoned… he might have honestly stolen a car and taken off for a familiar bolt hole–like he used to… and God knows what Mycroft would do.”

“I will begin searching known locations in London: good thinking.”

“I would have thought of it before, but I thought they were kidnapped… not… whatever.”

Greg hung up and hoped his missing people were in the found car.

As it turned out, John and Sally were….

~

John woke up to a brutal hangover and the sight of Greg Lestrade looking at him intently.

“John? Are you awake this time?”

“No,” John gurgled faintly. “And if you are a kind man you will shoot me or the lights.”

Greg walked over and turned out the lights.

“Good thinking: the noise of a gunshot would kill me,” John allowed. “Caffeine? Electrolytes? Suicide pill?”

“Thank God… How much of that punch did you drink, John?”

“Punch?”

“You were at the post-rehearsal party, do you remember?”

And in that instant, it all came rushing back…

~

They’d ditched everyone else and snuck out to Sally’s car.

“I always park outside the cordon area”–she made it sound like an innuendo–“just in case I have to… go.”

“You looked ready to go in those pants, alright.” John started nosing at her neck.

“Oh, Christ… Let’s get someplace with a bed…”

“Always a good idea, although…” John gave her his very best grin, “cars are nice too.”

They’d driven about halfway to somewhere when John couldn’t stand it anymore and slid over. “Pull over and we can take the edge off…”

Sally was panting, “Good idea, I can hardly manage…” She pulled off the road carefully. “I can scarcely drive. God, I feel hot!”

“You look hot…” John reached across her and unclipped the seatbelt. “How about we take care of that?”

“Backseat,” Sally muttered.

They managed to get into the backseat–somehow–and Sally started moaning about condoms.

“Later,” John said and pulled her shirt back, pinning her arms. “When we get to the hotel…”

“I can’t… Oh, fuck it all,” she moaned, and then tried to get at his zipper with her teeth.

“Allow me.” John unzipped his trousers–which was a relief–and then grinned. “But ladies first!”

“What?”

“Ladies first…” And John went to work with his tongue on her nipples. She moaned and tried to get her arms free; he leaned on her, pinning her arms further. “Oh, no…” John grinned wickedly. “Not so fast…”

Sally looked up in time to see the friendly and harmless John Watson façade drop away: there was this insanely confident man smirking down at her. “I always wanted to hear you beg…”

Then he went back to work on her nipples and one hand snaked down to undo her slacks.

She had some vague idea that she should be annoyed about him taking charge but… She lifted her hips and helped him get her pants pulled down…

Then the bastard used her slacks to pin her legs as well. He locked a leg over the slacks between her calves and she was effectively hobbled.

She JUST had time to start to protest when John slid down and put his tongue to work...

John grinned briefly at her moan and went back to the task at… tongue. _Obviously, she’d never had anyone who knew what they were doing go down on her. Judging from what Sherlock said, she was usually going down on Anderson, back in the day…_

After that, John couldn’t bother to think any more about anything except the scent of her and the taste. She was literally screaming, and at some point got one of her arms free and dug her nails into the back of his head.

“Oh, CHRIST! Fuck me…”

“Nuh-uh…” John started fingering her ass as well as fucking her with his tongue. “Beg harder.”

She moaned, “Please? Oh, God…”

“I have just a bit of lube…” John managed somehow to get it out of his pocket: it was a small tube, meant more for first aid use than sex. “So get me good and wet first…”

Sally slid down into the foot well and curled around in the darkened car until she could get his erection… out… _Oh, FUCK me, he was huge!_ Sally stared at it. “Where were you hiding THAT?” she choked out. _John was short! Shouldn’t he have been short, uh, there?_

“Later, darlin’. You don’t have to do anything but get me good and wet.”

“That isn’t going to work…”

“Trust me,” John said and pulled on her hair; he was stronger than he looked too, and obviously knew altogether too much about leverage, judging from how he’d restrained her with her own clothes. Sally had to admit it was a turn-on, but she couldn’t stop to think about it.

Anderson was clearly more of an idiot than he’d thought, since her technique was enthusiastic but amateur. _Still, plenty of time to teach her later. The muttering about his size was pleasant, though._

“Enough. Get up and pull your knees under you.”

John went to work with his tongue and his hands, using some of the dripping wetness from her pussy as extra lubrication to start working her open. She kept trying to get him to just fuck her, but John always loved an occasion to really be in command…

“Just fuck me, I’m sure it will be okay…” She didn’t care about condoms–didn’t care about anything.

“I have a better idea,” he said and, while he distracted her a good bit with his teeth, reached down and got his belt and tie.

She was too desperate to be fucked to put up much argument–and she didn’t have much leverage to start with–and he had her restrained in no time. He was half out of his mind with lust, but it was warring with the turn-on of hearing her screaming for it.

“Oh, GOD, look, do anything, just pleeeeeeaaaase!”

“Beg,” John said cheerfully as he rested over her back and started nipping at her neck and shoulders while he played with her breasts. He started moving himself between her butt-cheeks. _Nice…_

“Fuck me, please? Please? Oh, God, I’m going MAD…”

“Dunno…” John rolled a nipple between his fingers and moved his other hand down to continue working her open–and slick himself up a bit.

“Just… it’s enough… please? I have to… Oh, God…” _Tied up, unable to get away, and he wouldn’t… He wasn’t… Anyone who did this for fun was insane!_ She wanted him to get on with it. _Oh, GOD…_

“Maybe I want something in return?” He had no idea what; it was so hard to think…

“ANYTHING! Just please… Oh, God….”

John guided himself in carefully. She tensed briefly.

“Don’t STOP! Fuck!” She shoved backwards at him desperately.

“Not done anal?” John barely kept himself from shoving into her in one go.

“Once…” she panted. “PLEASE!” She’d never been so hot and so desperate in her life.

“Relax, and it will go faster…” John pushed in a bit more. She was writhing and pushing back onto him.

“Oh, God, PLEASE…”

“As you wish…” He pushed in, and she was bent double, and hot, and tight… She was shrieking in a way that would have made him worry he was hurting her if it wasn’t alternating with “Please! Hurry! More!”

Once he was all the way in, he moved both hands up to play with her nipples–and he started riding her hard.

She was breathlessly panting, “Please… Oh, God… God! Fuck me!”

“John,” he growled in her ear.

“PLEASE fuck me harder, John…” Sally didn’t know when she’d had a man drive her this mad. Anal had been unexciting the one time, but oh GOD she wanted more.

She came, screaming and biting into the jacket on the seat.

John came not long after, but… He hadn’t felt this good in years… He pushed his hips up close to keep from coming out and kept up with his hands as soon as he could.

She distantly felt John come, and sadly waited for him to pull out– _tell her to clean up and get dressed and get out_ – except he didn’t. He kept… Oh, God… he kept playing with her.

“Oh, God… John? I will fucking do anything just… Oh, God, more…”

He kept moving his hands, from her pussy to her breasts, and enjoying the sensation of her spasming and coming. She was almost wrung out and just whimpering when he finally finished for the second time.

John lay down over her back to rest for just a minute… _They had to get to the hotel…._

~

John flushed red. He tried to pull his hands up over his face, but they were restrained. “Oh, God… I didn’t? Donovan?” The memory of her begging him to fuck her was ringing in his ears.

“Still out cold, but they tell me she drank more of the punch.”

“Punch… You said…” John tried to stop remembering it all and THINK… “We were drugged?”

“Yeah, mate. It should have killed you, but Donovan switched the champagne out for ginger ale… so… everyone is going to pull through, but… uh… it had… effects.”

“Can you untie my hands?”

“Yeah. When you started coming out of it, you were trying to pull the IV out.”

“Yeah. That’s… actually not uncommon.”

Greg pulled the restraints.

“Is Sally– Is Donovan alright? Did I hurt her?”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think so, although she had some interesting bruises. The doctor didn’t say anything about… um… They had to pull a rape kit… but… you were BOTH drugged…”

John cringed. “Yeah. This is gonna be a mess if anyone wants to press charges.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask, but a couple of people are still missing. Did you see Sherlock or Mycroft?”

“No? Not since… um… since Sally and I slipped out to her car.” John suddenly got hit by what Greg was asking. “Wait… This happened to everyone?”

“Yes. Anyone who had the punch.”

“Mycroft wasn’t drinking much that I saw, but Sherlock was… but he’s not… um… I mean, I am, but Sherlock isn’t interested…” _Hell, Irene barely got his attention._

“I have no idea what he’d do with this stuff in his system.” Greg sighed. “We’re looking through a lot of his old bolt-holes.”

“I can’t picture Mycroft…” John’s mind tried to picture Mycroft with a woman and failed.

“We think Mycroft may have just gone somewhere to hole up–if he wasn’t thinking clearly. His assistant thinks he would go to someplace he felt secure and stay there, since that’s how he trained.”

John tried to sit up and his muscles protested–and reminded him what he had been doing. “When… When Sally… I need to apologize.” John winced. “God, I hope I didn’t hurt her.” _Admittedly, those shrieks had sounded more like enjoyment than pain, but… they were both flying._

“This is going to be REALLY awkward, John, but… when she wakes up, if she wants to talk to you… yeah.” He patted John on the shoulder. “I’ll let her know.”

_Christ. Well, at least Sherlock and Mycroft couldn’t possibly have done anything nearly this bad…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Sebastian

Sebastian woke up slowly and stretched. Before he opened his eyes, he realized there was someone lying in bed with him–and it WASN’T Jim Moriarty. He tried to peel an eyelid open; light stabbed at him.

“Uuuuhgh.”

“Do you know where we are?” rumbled a deep male voice.

“I… think so?”

“We were drugged. We should drink a lot of water and”–the body wriggled against him, full length, so they were tall–“electrolytes. Also, you are wonderful. Who are you?”

“Sebastian…” He tried once again to open his eyes, with a bit more success. Past a mop of curly black hair, he saw the familiar bedroom of one of their safe houses. “Yeah, this is my place… kind of. Who are you?” _Jim is going to be so mad…_

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Sebastian sat up abruptly and the room spun. _Nope, Jim is going to KILL me_.

~

Sherlock had plastered himself up against Sebastian. “That is a gun in your pocket,” Sherlock almost purred up at him, “but I don’t care.”

Sherlock eyed the man he’d almost fallen into: _armed–at least two guns and three knives–tall, muscled, gay, SAS? Oh… One of Mycroft’s agents undercover in the catering staff… and still a bit sweaty from moving furniture… He even smelled nice…_

“What?” Sebastian stared at Sherlock. _Flushed, pupils blown black until only a narrow ring of blue showed, lips parted… really attractive, kissable lips._

Memories of watching this man through a sniper scope danced in Sebastian’s mind. He tried to pull himself together. “Thought you were engaged?” he asked as his hands moved to Sherlock’s hips.

“Hmmm… No, not really. The serial killer seems to have poisoned the punch; I don’t care though, it feels glorious–better than heroin.” Sherlock moved up against the man–he was solid muscle, military, blond, intelligent, had a thing for adrenaline… everything he liked about John Watson–but he was gay. Talk about his lucky day.

 _Oh, hell._ Sebastian tried to come up with some excuse to leave, but… he tightened his grip around the man. “Maybe I should kidnap you and tie you up for safekeeping–you know, until the drugs wear off…”

Sherlock smirked up at him, “Sounds lovely. Where’s your car?”

“I… have a motorcycle stashed in the bushes.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s an excellent idea. I adore motorcycles.”

Sebastian pulled them out and across the lot to the spot he’d hidden his bike for a quick getaway if needed. He tossed Sherlock the spare helmet and got on. Sherlock swung on behind him and plastered himself to Sebastian’s back.

“I’m not sure I can make it to a hotel…” Sherlock moaned into Sebastian’s ear.

Sebastian thought about it. _One of the safe houses they kept was nearby._ He turned the bike and raced off.

By the time they got there, Sebastian felt like he was on fire and Sherlock was saying things in some other language.

Sebastian dragged them inside and slammed Sherlock up against the wall. “I have wanted to do this for so damn long…” Sherlock looked up at him with a hazy, wanton expression and said something he couldn’t understand at all.

Sherlock had never wanted sex this badly before. “{I believe the drugs may be having more of an effect than I thought….}”

“I have no idea what that meant, but if it was ‘no’ you better be a lot more clear.” Sebastian thought about the body hidden under that formal wear and growled, “I want you on your knees…”

Sherlock smirked and slid down the wall. “{You asked for it.}”

Sebastian startled–had he fainted? Was he that drunk? What?–and then Sherlock was using those musicians hands to have him out of his trousers and pulled free. In short order, Sherlock was playing him like a violin–and THEN he started using his mouth!

“Oh, dear GOD…” Sebastian had to brace on the wall over Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock didn’t bother to try to answer; all his attention was on the texture and feeling. His mind slowed and narrowed down to just this, and he put all of his attention on memorizing every inch of the man with his tongue.

Sherlock was happily tracing the veins and blood flow when he felt a change in the blood pressure and muscle twitches. He closed his lips around him as his mouth filled with warm, salty fluid.

 _Interesting… His diet must be very different than that of the other people… Oh, well, that was when I was on drugs, so that might affect my taste buds… and their diets were probably not…_ Sherlock’s musings on the things that might affect the taste of semen were interrupted by Sebastian picking him up bodily and carrying him into the bedroom.

Sebastian carried him into the bedroom after one of the best blowjobs of his life–and he included Jim’s–and kissed bruises onto his neck as he went. _God, the man’s skin was a dream!_ He put Sherlock down on the bed and paused to rip off his own clothes–it was far, far too hot in here.

Sherlock hazily watched the man taking off his clothes. _Muscles and scars, combat… A lot of close quarter fighting, as well as a few gunshot wounds…_ Sherlock pulled himself up and started tracing scars with his hands and tongue.

“Clothes! You have too many!” Sebastian growled.

Sherlock tried to get out of the clothes and eventually Sebastian had to help him. The trousers might be wearable again, but the shirt tore as Sebastian struggled to get it off of him.

“Oh, thank Christ…” Sebastian muttered as he looked at that expanse of pale skin exposed on the bed. Far more scars than he remembered, back when, but then Sebastian always thought of scars as adding something…

“{A nonexistent mythological figure,}” Sherlock muttered, and tried to pull himself up to get at Sebastian’s crotch again.

Sebastian pushed him down into the bed with casual strength. “Oh, I want to leave marks all over you… Why Watson never tied you to his bed, I don’t know.”

“{He’s insanely closeted and can’t admit to being bisexual–even to himself, I think; also, I’m not usually interested, but…}” Sherlock cut off with a moan as Sebastian worked his way down to Sherlock’s nipples.

Sebastian bit and sucked his way down Sherlock’s neck and chest as the man spoke very solemnly in some language or another–not one Sebastian knew, anyway–but that stopped when he hit his nipples. Sherlock arched half off the bed, and the rougher Sebastian was, the less he spoke, and the more he just made desperate noises.

Sebastian pinned his wrists down and kept moving lower. Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he made noises that sounded like a mourning dove as Sebastian returned the favor.

 _God, hadn’t anyone ever given HIM a blow job?_ Sebastian had a moment of enough clarity to wonder, and then just focused on making Sherlock twist off the bed and beg.

“{Yes! Like that, more!}” Sherlock wasn’t even certain what the man was doing; all he knew was he wanted him to do it more–a lot more.

Sherlock came very quickly, and lay there panting.

Sebastian let go of his wrists. “So, beautiful,” he rumbled as he lay full length on top of him, pinning him in place with his body, “how do you want to do this? Because I am NO WAY done with you…”

“{I… I don’t know… I want… I want everything!}”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are saying, but if I don’t hear a ‘no’ I’m gonna assume you are alright with me fucking you into the bed until you scream?”

“{That sounds lovely,}” Sherlock tried to say and it came out as a moan. He scrabbled on the bed.

Sebastian lifted himself up with some confusion until he realized that Sherlock was just turning over and presenting a very nice ass.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Sebastian said with relief. He grabbed the lube out of the drawer, along with a handful of condoms; he managed to drop about half of them, scattering them like a parody of rose petals.

“{Must be a fascinating chemical compound, I just want! Hurry up, I’m going insane!}”

Sebastian managed to get the condom on–badly, but he couldn’t stop–and tried to work Sherlock open a bit with the lube. Sherlock pushed back into him and twisted his hips, practically fucking himself on Sebastian’s fingers. It was the hottest, lewdest thing Sebastian had ever seen.

He fucked Sherlock open with his fingers, occasionally using one hand to stroke himself and try to settle the condom in place. Sherlock must have come once again, at least, but kept desperately begging for more.

Sebastian finally couldn’t stand it: no matter how hot it was to watch that tiger striped back arching and twisting, or feel him around his fingers–he wanted to be IN him.

He pulled his fingers out and wiped them on the bed, then grabbed Sherlock hard–the man moaned–and rocked into him as Sherlock pushed back.

“{YES! Finally! More!}” Sherlock demanded, and when Sebastian showed signs of slowing he pushed himself backwards on the man, arching his back and shoving backward with his toes and hands.

Sebastian groaned as he bottomed out and then, when he remembered how sensitive Sherlock’s nipples were, he reached up and grabbed him around the chest.

He slammed into Sherlock over and over, and all Sherlock did was moan and plead for more. Sebastian managed a rather muzzy concern that he’d hurt the man when he came down from his orgasm.

“Are you alright?”

“{Do that again!}”

“I still have no idea what you’re saying…”

Sherlock pulled free–Sebastian let him–and he rolled over, looking up at Sebastian. Sherlock looked wrecked, with his lips puffed and notable bruising on his neck and chest.

Sebastian was looking down, wondering if he could even try to stop, when Sherlock wrapped his legs around him and dug his fingers into his shoulders. “{More!}”

Sebastian grinned, “Well, body language still works.”

He tried to put on another condom and kept fumbling. Sherlock unwrapped his legs, pulled Sebastian up, and deftly removed a new condom from one of the wrappers scattered on the bed; he put it on him with his mouth.

“Fuck me!” Sebastian gasped at that.

“{Later!}” Sherlock wrapped his legs around him and tugged. “{Do that again!}”

Sebastian grinned evilly down at the man, “Ooh no, beautiful, you are SO not in charge right now.” He pulled Sherlock’s hands off and tied them together with the remains of Sherlock’s own shirt. Sherlock looked a bit concerned about that, so Sebastian distracted him by biting along his jaw.

 _There was some… reason… why I shouldn’t… hands tied… over… Fuck it._ Sherlock opened himself to Sebastian as much as he could. “Please!”

“Now, THAT I understood!” Sebastian pushed into him, sheathing himself in one solid stroke, and Sherlock arched up into it.

“More!” Sherlock panted desperately.

Sebastian grinned and pulled almost completely out and then back in, angling as best he could. Sherlock moaned and twisted and arched up into him. “Yes! Like… like that!”

“Glad to oblige!” Sebastian slammed into him as hard as he could and Sherlock cried out; for a moment, Sebastian thought he’d hurt him, but then Sherlock was back begging for more.

Sebastian came shuddering into a climax and pushing Sherlock down into the bed hard enough to leave hand prints. He collapsed across him, gasping.

“Want…” Sherlock gasped out. “Nothing is enough! Want…”

“Yeah… me… too…” Sebastian panted. He pulled Sherlock’s hands up over his head again and held them there by the shirt tie. He locked his leg into a hold across Sherlock’s legs and started working at his neck. “I always wanted you, always… So beautiful.”

“Not… haven’t been. Not since… scars…” Sherlock gasped.

“Scars are tattoos with better stories; you look better.”

Sherlock froze, staring up at him with eyes that were startlingly blue. “You… you’re just saying that because we’re both drunk.”

“Fuck that. Watching you writhe under me… Those stripes? It was like fucking a tiger…” Sebastian smiled. “Roll over.”

“What?”

Sebastian had him roll over and started fucking him with his fingers again: this time he kept a leg across Sherlock’s ankle and pulled on his hair.

“Ooooooooooooh God…” Sherlock moaned.

“Like your hair pulled?” Sebastian grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back while he kept fucking him with his hand.

Sherlock’s only answer was to moan and start twisting and arching, muscles playing under his skin, scars rippling across his back.

“Oh, yes, you’re beautiful right now…” Sebastian experimentally bit at one of the scars near his shoulder and twisted his fingers against Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock arched desperately into it. “More, please! More… Aaaaah!”

“Dunno how you got them, but I love your stripes.” Sebastian marveled as he felt himself actually get hard again. He fumbled a condom on one-handed–he wasn’t certain how well–and got into position.

“Let me hear you roar, beautiful…” he growled as he grabbed a fistful of hair and dug his other hand into the man’s hip hard enough to bruise.

Sherlock howled, and moaned, and shrieked, arching back into him and shuddering until he passed out. Sebastian came with a shout and slipped into unconsciousness as he did.

~

“I am so dead…” Sebastian groaned.

“Why?”

“Well, to start with, my kind-of boyfriend is going to kill me.”

Sherlock rolled over to face him. “Boyfriend?”

“Kind of?” Sebastian sighed. “And then there’s your brother…”

Sherlock made a face. “MUST you mention him? I know he’s technically your boss, but–”

“What?”

Sherlock stiffened in his arms and then slowly tracked up at him. “You… I thought you worked for him?”

“Uh… no?”

Sherlock was studying his face with intensity. “You don’t work for the killer…”

“Definitely not anyone… Wait… You said… serial killer?”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “Yes. Mycroft was playing bait; he’s struck at weddings more often than not.”

“I KNEW you and John couldn’t be getting together! You hadn’t been able to seduce the man before…”

Sherlock flushed. “Yes, well... uh... headache pills and electrolytes, I think…” _and maybe some ice-packs..._

“Right…” Sebastian got up and pulled open a drawer. Vacuum packed pajamas. He tossed a package to Sherlock. “Those are mine, but drawstring; they should be okay. I’m… I’m going to see what we have to drink.”

Sherlock unpackaged the clothes and put them on- slowly because he ached––and looked around the room.

Everything was put away for long term storage. He opened a closet and found carefully stored suits: _Yes, some in Sebastian’s size–Italian, mostly–but some… some in Jim Moriarty’s size and style…._

_But he’s…_

Slowly Sherlock came out to find Sebastian placing a box of electrolyte powder on the counter; the water was running freely from the tap in the sink.

“You haven’t used this place in several years…” Sherlock said slowly. “The water needs to run.”

“Yeah.” Sebastian didn’t look at him, just rinsed out two glasses and put them down.

“You still have suits here.”

“Probably.”

“So does Jim.”

Sebastian closed his eyes and slowly re-opened them. “No point in lying to you… Yes.”

“He’s… alive.”

“Yeah.”

“You… watched me before…?”

“Great line of sight into your flat.” Sebastian smiled faintly as he mixed up the drinks. “And ‘three continents Watson’ barely looked at your ass–I’m surprised he did that much.”

“Your… kind-of boyfriend?”

“Lover, boss… general lunatic.”

“But he didn’t drug us…”

“Hell, no,” Sebastian shook his head. “We flew over because he was… he was upset about the wedding announcement.”

“Ah. Not… Not about my being alive?”

“I don’t think he ever thought you were dead–not the impression I got, anyway.”

Sherlock took the proffered pain meds and drank the mix. “Why did he… die… then?”

“Mycroft. Mycroft was never going to stop going after him, not ever… but… if he was dead…”

 _That made sense._ Sherlock nodded. “So… ummm… now what?”

“I have no idea.” Sebastian looked up at him and grinned. “Worth it, though.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim  
> a bit of angst, a lot of sweet, and unexpected discoveries...

Mycroft woke up to Anthea touching him gently. “Sir? You’re safe…”

He opened his eyes blearily and saw a room full of armed guards and an unconscious–and naked–Jim Moriarty being hauled out. Anthea was looking down at him. _Concern, anger… embarrassment?_ Mycroft suddenly realized he was naked, restrained… and… sticky.

“Stop.” He tried to pull his memories together… _Oh_ … “I want him handled with kid gloves,” Mycroft snapped as someone unlocked the restraints on his wrists. “If I find so much as one unauthorized scratch on him, I’ll have your heads. This is my personal prisoner.” He put a growl and some menace into his voice despite his exhaustion… and belatedly tried to pull the sheets over himself.

 _Ugh! A mistake–they were disgusting._ He threw them off and tried not to retch.

“Y- Yes sir!” one of the guards– _Morris_ –said, and readjusted his hold on Moriarty to put less strain on him.

“He’ll need our hospital: he had considerably more of the punch than I did,” Mycroft said firmly. “I need a washcloth…”

“HE did?” Anthea startled.

“Yes. He isn’t responsible for this, I’m afraid–the assassin is still at large.” Mycroft frowned and looked around for something… he pulled a pillow over himself. “I had a half-glass and was rather incoherent. I want his blood drawn and a full–”

“We have a protocol from John Watson and Sally Donovan–they were found first.” Anthea nodded and sent a guard for a towel.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “Have we found everyone?”

“Uh… Everyone except your brother.”

“Get me a washcloth, find my clothes, someone bring me some water and… give me a minute.” Mycroft forced himself not to scrub at the stickiness on himself and looked up firmly. “And Anthea? I mean it: not a scratch on him, and our PRIVATE facilities.”

She nodded–expecting he meant to get some personal revenge–and started giving orders while Mycroft pulled his memories back together.

~

Moriarty had pulled Mycroft’s head down and kissed him.

He was a shockingly good kisser. Mycroft felt himself becoming… unduly distracted.

“I always wanted to do that…” Jim giggled. “If I’m going to be thrown back in your cells, I can at least say I kissed you first.”

“You… drank the punch… How MUCH punch?” Mycroft took hold of both of his arms.

“Two? Two glasses…” Jim shook his head trying to fight his way up from the heat and the desire to get closer. “I don’t have anything to do with this…”

Mycroft tried to think. The best thing would be to have him held for questioning, but he needed to not alert the actual assassin or any of Moriarty’s guards… and Moriarty seemed… drunk.

“James? Where are your guards?”

Warning bells kept going off in Jim’s mind. “Kiss me again and I might tell you…” he sang at him, swaying on his feet. If he could get Mycroft away from here… he might have… a chance…? And find out what was under those suits…. “I’m staying at the hotel across the street.”

“What?”

“I’m staying… at the hotel… across the street… Mycroft.” Jim moved up against the man: he hadn’t quite realized that he was taller than Sherlock.

Mycroft reflexively tightened his grip on Moriarty’s arms and Moriarty grinned up at him. “Well, I always did think you got off on seeing me in chains… Here’s your chance.”

Mycroft moved Moriarty further through the doorway and out of view. _Yes, getting him… away… from here sounded like a very good idea… Also, it was very hot with this bulletproof vest on._ “Fine,” Mycroft growled.

By the time he walked Moriarty across the parking lot and up to the side door to the hotel, Mycroft felt like he was drastically overheated. “It’s very warm.”

“Yes…” Jim tried not to but he whimpered, “Touch me, I feel like I’m on fire…”

“What?” Mycroft saw Moriarty fumble in his pocket and had a moments horrified realization that he had left his arm free–but all he did was swipe his hotel card to let them in.

Moriarty sagged into Mycroft. “I feel like… like I have the flu? No…”

Jim looked up at Mycroft and plastered himself up against him. “I want you out of that suit, Iceman… Maybe you can cool me off…”

“I suspect that would be a very bad idea…” Mycroft let Jim navigate them into the elevator. “How many guards will be at the room, James?”

“Sebie?” Jim closed his eyes and moaned, “Oh god, two of you?”

 _Wonderful, I have no idea if that is an answer or not…_ Mycroft kept a hand on his gun and steered Moriarty to the door, where he once again used his pass card without hesitation. It was quickly apparent that no one else was here.

“Just Yoooooou and meeee…” Jim snickered and started to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s vest. “Aren’t you hot with all those layers?”

“God, yes.” Mycroft was in fact rather overheated–and thirsty. “I need… I need water.”

“Bottled in the mini fridge… That’s a great idea…” Jim nodded. _Damn, it was hot_. Mycroft let go of him and he started to strip out of his clothes.

Mycroft got two bottles of cold water and couldn’t help but pause to hold one against his neck; he desperately wanted it elsewhere. He turned to find Moriarty almost nude, having removed everything but a knife holster on his leg. He thought quickly and pushed a cold bottle at him. “Here.”

Jim took the blessedly cool bottle and held it to his chest.

“Drink it,” Mycroft urged. “You had more of the punch.”

Jim made a show of drinking it–and running his tongue over it, rolling it over his neck… “You sure you want to stay allll buttoned up, Iceman?”

“I…” God, he wanted out of these clothes… and he wanted… _No..._ “I don’t trust you.”

“Restraints–third drawer.” Jim moaned, “Just FUCK me.”

“What?!”

Jim launched himself off the bed and tried to get Mycroft’s vest off of him; Mycroft didn’t put up much of a fight.

“Oh, God, I hadn’t realized I was so HOT…” Mycroft groaned as blessedly cool air hit his chest. _Wait, the bulletproof vest?_ James was on his knees pulling his trousers off of him… _No… That was a bad dangerous idea…_ “Restraints?” Mycroft asked.

“Third drawer.” Jim grinned up at the normally cool and controlled Mycroft Holmes–who looked anything but right now, “I am gonna mess you up soooo bad.”

Before Mycroft could react, James had wrapped both arms around him and lowered his mouth… to…

Mycroft’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor; Jim followed him down.

“This… is a very… bad… idea…!” Mycroft managed to whimper as James started doing things with his tongue that defied description and derailed his brain.

“Why?” Jim pulled his mouth clear to talk and worked with his hands. “You want to chain me to the bed and have your way with me first?” Jim meant to stop there but he found himself wondering out loud… “What ARE you into, Mycroft, I always wondered… Knives? Did it get you hard watching them hit me?”

Mycroft shuddered with revulsion and shoved James away. “NO!”

Jim sprawled backward on the floor. Mycroft forced himself to his feet and got into the drawer: indeed, a full set of restraints. He turned back and dragged a shuddering and panting James Moriarty up onto the bed and cuffed his wrists behind his back.

Mycroft–the bastard–had shoved him off and now wasn’t even letting him take care of himself. “If you’re locking my hands down, Iceman, you better lend a hand yourself–” He meant to say more but a wave of screaming need reduced him to moaning and twisting in Mycroft’s arms.

Mycroft stared down in fascination at the man begging and pleading almost across his lap… _It… It would be inhumane to… not… touch the man–especially with his hands restrained._

“You… want a hand, James? Did you want me to hurt you? Because I’m afraid that’s… not at all what I’m interested in.”

“I don’t CARE!” Jim panted.

Mycroft tried to think, but… He found himself running a hand over Moriarty: the man was surprisingly muscled under a soft surface. Jim moaned.

Somehow, Mycroft found himself lying next to and half on top of him–the skin contact seemed to cool the heat some–and started stroking gently. “I despise violence… I hate seeing people hurt–even you.”

“What?” Jim’s mind came back a little with the friction and the contact. “You…” He couldn’t keep a thought straight… Images of Mycroft watching them hurt him flashed in his mind and he cried out.

Mycroft jerked his hand back. “Did I hurt you?”

“Memories, Iceman… I never left your damn cells…” Jim whined. “If you don’t fucking touch me, I will knife you!”

“It’s becoming uncomfortable to touch MYSELF, James, but I am rather in need as well.”

“Fuck you. Lube, bedside table.”

Mycroft reached over and found not just a single bottle, but three–two of them flavored.

“You… were planning…?” Mycroft tried to finish the sentence but the sensation of slick cool lubrication…

Mycroft hazily felt his hands being pulled off of himself and moved behind his back. He started to protest but a small, warm hand took over stroking him–perhaps a bit harder than he liked.

“Not… Not so rough…” Then a mouth was on him and his mind whited out.

Jim saw Mycroft get out the lube, and pour some in his hands… _And then the bastard just sat there STROKING himself… AGH!_

Jim hit the quick release on the restraints–he didn’t think Mycroft had seen it; most people didn’t, being distracted by the obvious locks–and lunged. He had Mycroft’s hands behind his back before the man snapped out of his haze.

Jim had the feeling he should be doing something but all he could think about was getting to the lube, and getting his hands back on himself…

Oh… well… Mycroft was already hard… and… he’d always wanted to see him lose a bit of that ice…

Jim went to work with his mouth and lost track of time in the haze of sensation. Mycroft came with a small cry and then hardened again in his mouth. When Jim finally brought himself to release, his mind cleared for a moment…

Mycroft was lying on the bed with his head thrown back, moaning… his hair was plastered every which way with sweat and he looked completely debauched… his pale skin and freckles…

_Wait…_

_Freckles? Pale… freckles…_ Jim glanced down at the tangle of hair under his mouth, now covered in spit and other things…

Jim grinned and started crawling up Mycroft’s body, looking carefully. _His groin hair was RED… and he had freckles? And…_ Jim sprawled over him. “I always thought your hair was brown…”

Mycroft stared up at him, wide-eyed. “It was … quite orange as a child…” he finally said after a few false starts.

Jim licked behind Mycroft’s ear while lying across him. _Yes, indeed: the roots of his hair were a dark red, not brown–he dyed it!_ “So… how DO you like it?”

“What?” Mycroft’s pale eyes stared up at him: he looked a bit panicked.

“You said you didn’t want to watch me hurt… How do you get off?” Jim could feel his mind dragging down into a lust haze again, “Interesting: orgasm clears the mind”–he moaned and started rubbing against Mycroft–“for a moment or two anyway…”

“Does it?” Mycroft forced his mind to work… _Yes?_ Yes, after he’d had an orgasm the haze had lifted, and he was much clearer of mind even now… but Jim… Jim had drunk far more…

“Unlock me?” Mycroft asked hopefully. “I can... I can touch you?”

“Nu-uh, Iceman–you’re a tricky bastard.” Jim’s eyes were already losing focus again. “So you… like it slower?”

“I like romance, and touching… and…” Mycroft trailed off with a groan as Jim’s hand started stroking him gently. “Yes…”

“I need… a lot more… right now…” Jim panted and grabbed for the lube. “Might be nice another day.” Jim had just enough wits to wonder about experience, and stretching… “You ever bottomed?”

“…No…”

“Pity.” Jim started working himself open and lost all coherence. His world collapsed to his hand on his dick and his fingers in his ass, and he NEEDED… _God, I need more_ … He finally managed to come, but it wasn’t enough! A desperate whine brought him back to the room. “Wha?”

Mycroft was gritting his teeth and struggling against the restraints. Jim was sitting across his legs, stroking himself and doing something he couldn’t see, and wriggling… but not enough… and he couldn’t get his HANDS free… _When I get loose, I am going to strangle him_ … Mycroft forced the thought down. _He’s drugged and incoherent–it’s not deliberate_ …

Jim came, spurting white all over his own body and Mycroft’s. Mycroft whimpered; he was torn between dismay at the disgusting mess and desperation.

Jim looked down hazily at Mycroft, decorated with his come, looking up desperately–he was hard and leaking and he looked so much younger… Jim giggled, “You aren’t nearly as scary like that, you know.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and opened them. “If I lower myself to beg, will you…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Jim couldn’t help but chuckle, “Wait… d’you mean to tell me you’re shy?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and kept them closed. “I’m not shy. Just… please…” His voice almost shook. “Can you at least touch me…?”

“Unlike you and your boys, I’m not a sadist…” Jim moved himself into position. “I was trying to work myself open–since you haven’t bottomed–but I got… distracted.”

“I’m not a–” Mycroft opened his eyes suddenly as he felt something finally touch him, and then he was sinking–no, Jim was sinking onto him… _Oh, FINALLY_ … Mycroft moaned, “THANK you…”

“Oooh…” Jim meant to say something snarky but all thought fled out of his mind as he forced himself to go slowly… _God, this felt wonderful_ … A small part of his mind had time to wonder if it was a coincidence that Mycroft’s dick angled just the right way, or the drugs that made it so good… but then he stopped wondering anything.

Jim was slowly riding Mycroft and stroking himself, listening to the musical moaning beneath him… Mycroft had a surprisingly pleasant voice when he wasn’t snarling at you….

Mycroft was staring up at James–he couldn’t even think of this being Moriarty–slowly moving on top of him, around him... It was like he was dancing slowly to music only he could hear… He lost himself again in the sensation. Mycroft came inside of him and slid down into a dreamless sleep.

Jim felt Mycroft come, and felt him soften, and he stopped making those noises… He finished up and a bit of his mind cleared again… _I had more punch, he’d said_ … Jim managed to stagger over and drink another blessedly cool bottle of water before he came back to the bed.

He rolled Mycroft onto his side. “Sorry, Mycroft…” He slid his erection between Mycroft’s cheeks and started rubbing his hands over him, feeling all the stickiness of sweat and… other things… “I wish I could fuck you properly,” Jim sighed into his ear. “Maybe some other time.” Jim lost himself rubbing on and against Mycroft.

He let himself fantasize about Mycroft’s soft hands being gentle–not hurting him–and bit gently at a freckled shoulder as he came between his cheeks.

“It seems to be lessening… in effect… each time…” Jim said hazily as he stroked himself. “Either it’s just wearing off, or the chemicals in orgasm help…” When he was hard again he pushed in between Mycroft’s legs and wrapped his arms around the man, kissing and licking at Mycroft’s back.

“Must… be interesting…” Jim wondered why an assassin would want this… He drifted in a wave of pleasure, and then slipped into sleep as he softened between Mycroft’s thighs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftermath, part 1   
> (note: not always in temporal order, precisely)

John was finally able to convince them to let him go home–being a doctor helped a bit–and frankly he thought a bit of distance and familiarity would help. They said they had found everyone but Sherlock, but the drug didn’t seem to have any lasting effects, so hopefully he’d turn up.

John rather wondered if Sherlock had just gone back to Baker Street.

Given that thought, he had the cab take him there instead of… _Well, it wasn’t really home, was it? And Mrs. Hudson had been babysitting Rosie anyway…_

After a bracing cup of tea and a scolding from his landlady–not his nurse–he was tucked up with a blanket on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to show up and trying to forget how bloody wonderful things had been with Sally…

_NOT that she’ll ever want to see me again…_

~

Jim woke up slowly. Everything felt underwater in an odd way… Eventually he thought _mood leveler_ and drifted back down to sleep.

He woke up again to look around curiously. He was in something that looked a bit like a stage set for a military or prison hospital room. His eyes tracked up to an IV bag and down the line to his arm… which was restrained to the bed.

 _Mycroft’s boys again…_ Jim tried to panic but could only manage a vague sort of unhappiness. He stared at the fake window–drapes over a light box–for a while, wondering if Sebastian would figure out what had happened, and where he was…

He woke up again because someone was stroking his shoulder.

“James? It would be very helpful if you could get up.”

Jim felt considerably more alert this time and had a sharp spike of anxiety as he recognized Mycroft’s voice.

“Must I?” He did his best to sound bored and put upon. “Can’t the beatings wait until after tea at least? I would think I would rate tea on a second interrogation.”

He rolled his head to the side to see Mycroft–very proper in his usual suit and yes, with the ever-present umbrella–looking down at him with the cool, if slightly cross, expression he had seen so often before.

A flash image of Mycroft lying on the bed with his head thrown back, moaning… looking completely debauched… his pale skin and freckles…

Jim couldn’t help but smile faintly. “Pity about the drugs… I wonder what you would have been like in another life…”

“Idle fantasies that help no one,” Mycroft sighed, sounding put upon. Then, much to Jim’s shock, Mycroft undid the restraints on his legs and arms. He sat up very slowly.

“As far as anyone knows,” Mycroft said, pulling him up out of bed and putting him into a wheelchair, “you were transferred to my personal oversight for interrogation, and absolutely no one is watching as I remove you from any official facilities.”

Jim searched through his memories and tried to make sense of things as they went through some eerily familiar types of hallways: grey, autocratic drab, like the hallways where he was kept last time. The drugs and sedation he’d been under weakened his façade enough for him to whimper.

“James?” Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder and Jim steeled himself not to flinch. “I… ah… hmm… I am afraid that reassuring people is something I have very little experience with.”

Jim laughed despite himself. “Reassuring? You’re taking me off to something worse than the boys you had last time; not sure how you would reassure me.”

Mycroft stopped the wheelchair in front of a secured door. “No… You… could have done any number of things to me the other night: we were both rather…” Mycroft paused for a while, his hand resting on Jim’s shoulder.

Jim finally worked up the nerve to look up and back, expecting cool amusement, or anger, or sneering disdain. _Mycroft looked… sad?_

“As you said, what could have been, perhaps? In another life…” Mycroft tapped a sequence of keys into a box on the wall and the door clicked unlocked. “In this one? As far as my staff is concerned, I took you away and had some sort of personal vengeance–doubtlessly followed by your unrecorded demise.”

Mycroft pushed the door open and Jim stared in shocked disbelief at the hazy grey light of early morning London…

And a waiting car…

With a worried Sebastian, one hand on his gun, and a rather disheveled and bruised looking Sherlock Holmes.

“It would be best, James, if we never crossed paths again.” Mycroft then pursed his lips unhappily. “Sherlock? What the devil happened to you?”

“Tigers,” Sherlock drawled with an amused look at his brother.

“What?”

Sebastian strode forward and scooped Jim out of the wheelchair. “Are you alright?”

“Yes?” Jim managed to shake off the shock enough to look over at Mycroft as Sebastian put him in the car: he was standing framed in the doorway looking aggravated at Sherlock–and pointedly NOT looking at Jim.

He looked… Jim considered what he remembered of that night… _He looked lonely, actually._

He let Sebastian get into the driver’s seat–Sherlock and Mycroft were having one of their staring conversations–but he stopped him before he could drive away, and lowered the window.

“So, Iceman…” Jim kept his voice even and put on the sunglasses that Sebie offered him.

“Yes…?” Mycroft looked at him with that pursed-lip disapproval that Jim was beginning to think covered up actual emotion.

“Apparently, you have a killer out there that spiked the punch. Since I’m a bit annoyed about that, have Sherly send the information along and I’ll get my boys to shake a few sources.” He lowered the glasses enough to look straight at Mycroft. _I owe you one._

Mycroft nodded his head slowly.

Jim raised the window and sat back. He didn’t say anything until they’d changed cars twice and were heading to a safehouse.

~

Sherlock had sat quietly with Sebastian, trying to figure out what this all meant–in the larger scheme of things.

“So… where… is he?”

“If you think I’m telling you that, you’re mad,” Sebastian snorted.

“Well, he’s obviously not HERE…”

“No. He spotted the fact that it was a faked wedding and sent me a text to go home, but… uh…”

“But we were drugged,” Sherlock sighed, and then looked speculatively at Sebastian. “Is he actually going to object?”

“Honestly? No clue. He… uh… He was pretty hung up on you until your brother worked him over, then…”

Sherlock winced. “I was… rather oblivious.” Then the facts slammed into him hard enough to hurt. “My brother! He was the target! Where’s my PHONE!”

Sebastian shrugged, a bit wide-eyed. “Wherever you threw your clothes?”

Sherlock finally found his phone and checked the texts. _Several from Greg, one from John… there…_

Call me immediately upon receipt–verity. MH

Sherlock stared at the phone. “I have… I have to call my brother immediately.”

Sebastian winced. “Can you NOT throw me in jail?”

“For what?”

“Breathing? Existing? Fucking you into the mattress and leaving hand prints on you?”

Sherlock smirked faintly, “Only if you promise we can do that again sober.”

Sebastian’s mouth dropped open and then closed with a grin. Sherlock dialed.

Mycroft’s voice was tired. “Are you safe?”

“Yes, but… it’s odd. It was the punch, but it doesn’t make–”

“It would have killed us all if Donovan had made it with alcohol as she was supposed to. She substituted ginger ale and it had… non-lethal but highly inadvisable effects.”

“Your talent for understatement remains, brother. So everyone is alright?” Sherlock paused. “Wait, were you affected?” He saw Sebastian’s eyes widen and he stifled a laugh with his hand.

“…Yes,” Mycroft answered very stiffly.

Sherlock sat down suddenly. “I’m sorry. I… was foolhardy and… to be honest, I was lucky in my choice of partners, however odd it might be.”

Sebastian ducked his head and hesitantly came over. “Is he okay?” he mouthed. Sebastian wasn’t really concerned about Mycroft, but… Sherlock was, and well, it seemed polite.

“Jim Moriarty is alive,” Mycroft said quietly.

“I know.” Sherlock frowned into the phone and glanced up at Sebastian. “How do YOU know Moriarty is alive?”

Sebastian’s eyes went wide and his hands clenched.

“He had at least two glasses of the punch,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I have only one question.”

“What?” Sherlock’s mouth went rather dry.

“Can you help me get him out of London?”

~

Sally was finally allowed out of the hospital, and Greg himself took her home. She tried not to let anything show, but she was pretty sure it failed.

“Did they tell you that you saved everyone’s lives?”

“Yeah,” she said inflectionlessly.

“Oh…” He went back to driving. After a while he said, “Pretty much everyone was affected.”

“Yeah.”

Greg shut up until he got to her house. “John… John was really worried he’d hurt you and he… wanted to talk to you if and when you wanted to talk to him, but…”

Sally tried to keep her hand steady as she let herself into her flat. “We were both drugged, Greg.”

Greg smiled a bit hesitantly. “Let me know if I can help, yeah? And everyone is getting counseling…”

Sally made a face. “Bugger them!”

Greg laughed, a bit relieved. “You’ll be alright then?”

“Yeah, go on…”

She locked up and made herself tea, and stared at the telly without much paying attention. Her mind kept wandering back to the back seat of her car…

_John Watson smirking down at her. “I always wanted to hear you beg…”_

_John driving her to orgasm with just his tongue…_

Sally’s hand wandered to her nipples and she leaned back, remembering… She was never, EVER going to be able to face John again… She bit her lip as she remembered the taste of him, the insanely confident grin, the way he made her feel…

She eventually went to bed, where she mostly lay there looking up at the ceiling.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath part 2: mirror images  
> Sherlock talks to John, and Jim talks to Sebastian

Sherlock finally came back to Baker Street in the early morning. As he entered the flat, he heard John call out, “Any chance of finding out where you were yesterday?”

“John?” Sherlock actually looked startled.

John shrugged. “Rosie was here, and,” John poured the tea and brought it out, “I figured I might as–” John stared open mouthed at Sherlock, who was still wearing the remains of his rehearsal suit. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

Sherlock smirked, “Enthusiasm and too much punch.”

“Your text said you had business to deal with… uh… You went OUT like that?”

Sherlock stopped smiling a bit. “John… a lot is going on and… I know… I know a lot of our problems have been because I didn’t tell you things…”

“Damn right.” John put down some breakfast in front of the man and glared at him until he ate some.

“I’m asking once… I can tell you–tell you exactly what’s going on–but you will not be able to tell ANYONE else, possibly ever.”

“Is it going to get you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Anyone else?”

“I doubt it… It’s more along the lines of trying to prevent anyone else from getting hurt.”

“Shoot.”

Sherlock stared down at his tea. “Last chance.”

“I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, and shoved down a well; I’ve been set on fire, watched you jump off a roof, and had my wife die in front of me–I think I’ve had enough bloody secrets.”

“The assassin poisoned the punch–”

“Got that. Donovan saved us all by not using champagne; Greg called and said she figured it was a stakeout and we shouldn’t really drink.”

Sherlock nodded, “A good call, even if the drug hadn’t been in the punch, but…” He blinked and looked up suddenly. “Mycroft said you were found with DONOVAN?!”

John’s face felt hot; he poured more tea. “Yes. Do go on.”

“Should… Wait, should I be offering sympathy?” Sherlock sounded a bit dubious.

“It was absolutely fantastic, I behaved horribly, and this is going to be insanely awkward and I have no idea how to cope, so for right now I am making tea and pretending nothing is wrong. Do. Go. On.”

“Ah…” Sherlock held out his tea cup and let John refill it.

Rosie chose that moment to wake up and start to cry, and the conversation was put off long enough to deal with the needed tasks of parenting young children.

Eventually they were back in the living room, with John holding Rosie. “You were saying?”

“The assassin intended to kill everyone, the target and… he obviously had no concern for collateral damage.”

John nodded, “It’s escalating.”

“Two people were there who were not anticipated by the assassin, or by our people. They’d also seen the wedding announcement and…” Sherlock stared off with that distant look he got sometimes. “He knew it didn’t sound right–us marrying–and he flew out to find out why, to get a look… even though it was a very risky idea.”

“You went from two to ‘he’, I notice.”

“Jim Moriarty and his bodyguard.”

John looked dubiously down at his tea. “Sherlock, testing drugs on my tea so soon after?”

“He’s alive–I don’t know how. His bodyguard told me he faked his death to get… to keep Mycroft away from him. He knew I wasn’t dead… At least… Sebastian says he did, from before I came back.”

“Jim Moriarty…” John took a deep breath and tried to calm down, “is ACTUALLY alive? Not just prerecorded messages?”

“Yes.”

“And… you know this how?” John had a sudden horrified realization. “Oh, God.” He put his free hand over his face. “You slept with Moriarty?”

“Errr… No, I slept with his bodyguard–MYCROFT ended up with Jim…”

~

Sebastian was angry and worried when he went with Sherlock to retrieve Jim. He was furious when he saw the boss looking small and insanely vulnerable in a wheelchair without his usual amused bravado.

He started being frightened when the boss just sat quietly during the trip, barely even responding as they changed cars and circled around to lose any traces.

It wasn’t like him to be still, and quiet for so long… not without a computer in front of him.

“Jim? Please say something?” Sebastian finally said as they took the last circuit before pulling into the most secure safe house they had left in London.

“I’m… thinking.”

“You’re scaring me.”

A razor-edged flash of a grin. “If I was scaring you, you’d be grinning like a loon and driving faster.”

“That’s when you’re being scary… not when… Hell, what happened?”

“When we get inside.”

Jim walked inside, a bit unsteadily, and Sebastian demanded to look him over.

“I… I don’t think I have any injuries?” Jim tilted his head thoughtfully, “I was fairly heavily sedated… mood leveler, at least when I first woke up… When IS it?”

“Two days after the rehearsal? That is, you were out of contact for a bit over twenty-four hours.”

“I wonder when his people… or how his people found us?”

“Boss, I’m begging you… Let me give you a once over and get you into a shower? Have you had any food?”

“IV, possibly.” Jim shrugged, a bit of his old unconcern for his own safety and well-being coming back. “I have to find out who did that, and what the HELL they used!” Jim’s mouth set in a hard line. “That shit CANNOT be allowed to fall into anyone else’s hands.”

“Sherlock… said it seemed likely it was never intended for that. Apparently, if the punch had been made with alcohol it would have killed everyone.”

Jim waved his hand, “Yes, but how long until they find out what it DOES? We have to find it and get rid of every single person who can duplicate it.” Jim grinned. “At least until we can invent a simple test for it.”

Sebastian laughed, “Okay, you ARE feeling better. While the experience was fun, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be exposed again. It sure took the caution out of my head, that’s for sure.”

Jim reluctantly let Sebastian check him over: as he’d suspected, his only injuries were minor and likely incidental. Jim checked Sebastian over and found a new collection of bruises and some… truly impressive raking scratch marks across his shoulders and buttocks.

“Sherlock did that?”

“Um… You did see him, didn’t you?”

“He did SAY he was mauled by a Tiger…” Jim raised an eyebrow and stepped into the shower to scrub the smell of hospital and prison off.

“He said I didn’t hurt him that bad, but… I kind of lost control of my strength.” Sebastian frowned. “I was kind of… worried when we both came down he’d be upset, but…”

“Sherly’s a masochist,” Jim shrugged, “or, if not an actual one, then he’ll put up with it for the adrenaline and endorphins.”

“You aren’t mad?”

Jim got out and gratefully wrapped himself in a robe. “I suppose I would be… but I probably had at least two glasses of that punch…”

Sebastian stared at him in horror. “Oh GOD… and no one touching you? I’m surprised you didn’t claw your skin off.” He added hurriedly, “I mean, if you reacted anything like me.”

Jim stopped and stared at the man as he made up some quick food. “What makes you think…?”

“Wait… MYCROFT?”

“Yes. He’d had less of it, though.”

Sebastian looked Jim over in puzzlement. “You… uh…”

“He… isn’t what I thought,” Jim said thoughtfully. “Apparently, that icy demeanor is more of a mask than even I knew… He didn’t hurt me.”

Sebastian didn’t know what to say about that and just made up food.

“Anyway, reach out to the network, Sebie… I want the people behind this–alive, if at all possible–at least their chemist.”

He nodded. “How do you want to spin it?”

“Someone almost killed Sherlock.” Jim shrugged. “Standing orders have always been that the network stays away from him unless they get crossed directly; now he’s back looking around–my heir is annoyed.”

Sebastian nodded and started sending orders.

When they were eating again–a late lunch or an early dinner, schedules were always somewhat flexible with him–Jim asked, “Are you planning on seeing him again?”

“I…” Sebastian braced a bit. “I’d like to?”

“What does he think about that?”

“Um… he suggested it–sober next time.”

“Hmmm.” Jim looked at him steadily for a while. “Go ahead, just… watch your back.”

Sebastian blinked a lot. “Well, that... went better than I expected.”

Jim turned back to his computer, “I just found out that the vicious, sadistic Mycroft Holmes…isn’t. It’s been a strange couple of days.”

“So… What’s he like?”

Jim leaned back. “Bearing in mind that I had a limited time with him, and most of it while we were both out of our heads?”

Sebastian nodded.

“Softer, quieter… not very experienced, I think… lonely… afraid to let anyone get close and… pulling on an untouchable mask for everyone else.”

“That… sounds a lot like you… except–”

“Maybe in another life, Sebie. Get back to work.”


	9. renewing aquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they find the assassin(s) and nothing goes according to plan because Sherlock is like that...

It took the combined resources of Mycroft Holmes and Jim Moriarty three days to track down the assassin–or rather, as they had guessed, the group behind the assassinations.

Everyone found it rather eerie how well they worked together. Jim found it unsettling that Mycroft anticipated his requests and information needs almost before he had a chance to ask; Mycroft found it astonishing how Jim’s mind leaped ahead to answers, cutting through a maze of false leads with ease.

Sherlock seemed to spend most of his time staring at text messages with increasing annoyance.

Eventually, however, the limits of computers, cameras, and information networks were reached and a physical response was required.

Sebastian was dispatched to Baker Street.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Boss: Watson will murder me in my sleep!”

“So don’t sleep,” Jim said with a shrug, “or get Sherlock to protect you; you said you made a good impression. I can’t send anyone else, Sebie: you’re the only one they already know.”

Sebastian winced and shouldered his gear.

Any lingering question as to his welcome was resolved when Sherlock called out, “Come up, there’s tea,” in response to his knock on the unlocked door.

Sherlock was poring over maps on the table when Sebastian came in; rather distractedly, he said, “Oh good, I can introduce you!”

“Uh… No need to…” Sebastian sighed, and then looked up as Watson came in with a tray.

John stared at the absolute LAST person he ever expected. “Colonel?”

“Captain…” Sebastian sighed.

John put the tray down and stared at him, then whirled on Sherlock. Pointing a finger firmly at Sebastian, he demanded, “THIS is Sebastian-Jim’s-bodyguard?”

“Yes?” Sherlock stood up in confusion. “You obviously know each other from the military, judging from titles…”

Watson stalked over and Sebastian braced–John had a mean right hook and a short fuse, after all.

“If you even THINK of hurting Sherlock,” John hissed up at him , “I will personally feed you your rifle without disassembling it first.”

“I did tell Jim this wouldn’t go well…”

“You were the sniper at the pool, weren’t you?!”

“Yes?” Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck.

“I will have you skinned, stuffed, and mounted as a damn trophy if you cross me, Moran.”

Sebastian had absolutely no doubt about it, but he couldn’t help but laugh, which set Watson back a bit.

“What’s so funny?”

“You sound so damn much like Jim it’s a riot; the only thing missing is threatening to make me into shoes.”

Sherlock was looking back and forth at the scene in utter confusion when, to his utter bewilderment, John started to snicker…

“Oh, God, I do, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian chuckled.

John stepped back a bit and looked him over. “How long did it take for Moriarty to pick you up?”

“Three days after I got back to London, someone approached me with a job–it was three steps down from the boss, but…”

“Three days…” John shook his head.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m a bit at a loss?”

John sighed and walked back over to the table. “You may as well settle in and get comfortable.”

“Right… so… can we go back to being friendly or are we still on ranks?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Given you’re balling my best mate here, I suppose it’s a bit much to keep on being formal.”

“Well, it’s only fair after you swiped my girlfriend.”

John waved a hand and laughed, “You had six at the time…”

Sebastian took pity on Sherlock and put down his bag and sat down. “We were in the same unit for a few years, until John got transferred to the Fifth.”

“That… almost explains it.” Sherlock sighed. “Then why were you aiming a sniper rifle at him?”

John and Sebastian looked solemnly at each other and intoned, “Well, he owed me money…” in unison before they both cracked up. Sherlock gritted his teeth and refused to rise to the bait.

Sebastian smiled, “I didn’t know it was HIM until the operation was underway. I told the boss not to take Watson for granted, but once he gets an idea in his head…” He sighed. “He was just playing with you Sherlock.”

Playing?!” Watson stared at him.

“John… You know how I shoot… I’ve worked for him since I got back to London. If Jim wanted Sherlock dead, I could have put a bullet in his brain right through the windows, or any other time.”

John went white. Sherlock took in the serious tone on Sebastian and the horrified expression on John.

“You… said you watched me?” Sherlock said and looked thoughtfully at the windows.

“Sure. Great line of sight on your flat. Watched you a lot.” Sebastian nodded.

“John? I take it you think he could…”

“Colonel Moran–Major, when I knew him–was one of the top snipers in our unit–”

“Hey! THE top!”

John nodded, “Alright, THE top sniper in our unit. That’s the unit where I learned to shoot well enough to hit the cabbie through two windows.”

“Aw hell, I should have realized that was you…” Sebastian shook his head.

“So… are you going to be able to work together? And…” Sherlock chewed his lip. “Do you have any objections to my… seeing him again?”

“We worked together well before, don’t see why not,” John shrugged. “And… well, I should warn you that Sebastian had more of a rep than I did–”

“Is that saying much?” Sherlock frowned.

They both burst out laughing. Sherlock grumpily went back to planning and resolved to ignore them both.

~

“Tell me again how I got into this?” Sebastian hissed at John. They were both lying flat on a roof, trying to get a look into a building.

“You got involved with Sherlock, that’s how,” John muttered. “Same way I did.”

“WHY did the lunatic go in there?” Sebastian was tracking slight motion through his scope, but he didn’t dare shoot without a clear identification.

“Bloody hell if I know,” John muttered. “He was supposed to just do a perimeter sweep, but…” John sighed. “You stay on point; I’ll see if I can get closer in.” He grumbled, “Probably need a medic anyway.”

“Right. Stay on the line, and go flat if I whistle.”

“Right.”

So, of course, John had to run right into Donovan when he was looking to get closer.

Sally was finally back on a real case. Every single blasted police officer, MI5 agent, and what-have-you that had been drugged was put on a week of medical leave, and all she’d had to occupy her time was catching up on her television shows… and thinking about Watson.

Greg had pulled some strings for her to even be on this case, since it was personal, but they needed people who could blend and… well…

So, of course, Sherlock and John were in on it, along with some big, good-looking fellow–he looked familiar–that was apparently some old army pal of John’s.

She did her best to ignore them and avoid them, and then Sherlock… was Sherlock. He’d gone in, despite orders, despite plans, and bollixed everything up.

“I don’t know why anyone bothers to tell him what to do, he won’t listen…” she was muttering and came around a bit of cover to almost fall over John.

“…Oh…” John stared at her with wide eyes, looking innocent and fluffy and harmless, despite the tactical gear.

“Oh,” Sally said, baring her teeth. “Your pet freak–pardon, your pet bloody wanker–going to come OUT anytime?”

John closed his eyes slowly and opened them, and put his business face on. “I have no idea; he wasn’t supposed to go in at all. Seb is on high point with a sniper rifle, but–”

“Seb? The tall bloke?”

John nodded. “We used to serve together; best sniper in her majesty’s forces.” He peered carefully around the cover they were using. “He’s seen motion, but doesn’t dare shoot until he knows who it is.”

“Well, then, we have to wait,” Sally sighed.

“Look, about that night–”

“Now is NOT the time.”

“…Right.”

They crouched side by side, guns drawn, trying not to look at each other.

Sally had a sudden snap of recollection. “That army bloke: wasn’t he… loading tables?”

“Hmm?” John thought about it while watching for any sign of Sherlock. “I know he was in the staff somehow, back of house…”

“Oh, yeah, he looked familiar.”

John cleared his throat. “He ended up with Sherlock.”

Sally’s head snapped over hard and fast enough to make her dizzy. “What?”

“Errr… Sorry? I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned… Bit of an awkward thing for me; I only found out earlier today that the ‘Sebastian’ Sherlock went on about was my old mate Seb.”

“Uh… Sherlock… had… In all honesty, I can’t picture it.”

“Neither can I, but apparently they got on well. Might end up, uh, dating or something.”

Sally was saved from having to say anything by a bright flash of light, a loud noise, and objects exploding from a window.

“Thank Christ…” Sally muttered. “Come on then, let’s go rescue the poor criminals from your flatmate.”

~

Sherlock was sitting, cheerfully wrapped in an orange blanket, watching the surviving criminals–and their hostages, whom he had gone in to rescue–get loaded into SIS secure vans and ambulances, respectively.

“You… are a menace,” Sebastian said as he sat down next to him. “Here.” He dabbed a bit of antiseptic on a small cut hidden in Sherlock’s curls.

“Ow!”

“Don’t give me that, you have a hella pain tolerance.”

Sherlock sniffed, “I have a sensitive scalp.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I do: it’s why I like people pulling on my hair.”

Sebastian looked at Sherlock, covered in soot, debris, and god knows what, sitting with injured dignity in an orange blanket, looking indignant and haughty… and cracked up.

“Hmph.” Sherlock eventually unbent a bit. “I had to go in…”

“Yeah, I saw all the prisoners getting out.” He put an arm around him. “I’m sorry the bullet went that close to you, but I had to take the shot.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I did my best to give you a clear shot at the man, but…” Sherlock shrugged. “Shooting through a window, there’s going to be glass flying; it’s why I shielded my eyes.”

“Not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad? It was a brilliant shot.” Sherlock blinked in some confusion.

Sebastian grinned. “Think I could help you relax a bit? Maybe back at that safe house?”

Sherlock grinned back at him. “I’ll make sure John knows, and Gary, and we can leave.”

“Even I know his name is Greg…”

“You mean George?” Sherlock said innocently, walking off wearing an orange blanket like a royal robe.

Sherlock caught up with John, who was wrapping up a report on his part in this–he’d ended up having to treat some injured under fire.

“Would you mind terribly if I caught up with you later, John?”

John looked puzzled and annoyed for a moment and then his eyes tracked over to Sebastian; a faint smile softened his face. “Go on and have some fun, then, but I still need to rip you a new one for going in without even TRYING to warn us.”

“Immediate danger required an immediate response–”

“Go on,” John grinned and shook his head. “Just… keep in touch, yeah?”

Sherlock grinned and went back over to Sebastian. John watched as they spoke quietly and Sebastian slid the blanket off his shoulders and guided him off with an arm around him.

“So…” Sally Donovan had walked up while he was distracted. “You were serious then?” She nodded after Seb and Sherlock.

“Yeah.” John kept his eyes on his report. “I’m not convinced it’s good for either of them, but they’re grown men.”

“So you two never were…?”

“I’m not gay,” John sighed. “If nothing else, I would think–” he bit back on the rest of the statement.

“So…” Sally steeled her nerves. “I’m putting a lot out there–and if the answer is ‘no’, that’s fine–but by God, if you laugh at me you’ll regret it.”

“What?”

“If… If those two met that way, and seem to be getting on, do… do you think we’d have a chance in hell?”

John snapped his head up and stared at her. She tensed and bristled reflexively, waiting for the cutting remark, or…

A familiar grin flickered across his face. “It’s a crazy idea,”–she tried not to let the disappointment show–“but we obviously can’t make that kind of decision on an empty stomach, can we?”

“Are you having me on?”

That smirk got a bit broader. “Not until after dinner.” He extended an arm. “Since I happen to know my flatmate won’t be home tonight… how about I take you home and cook something?”

“You can cook?”

“You didn’t think Sherlock did, did you?”

“No…” she smiled, “not really…” She tentatively put her arm through his. “It’s really a crazy idea though, isn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm. Lucky for you, I have plenty of practice at crazy ideas…”

Sally felt the tension easing off. “Yeah, I guess you would at that.” She laughed, “You almost married Sherlock, after all.”

“I threatened to beat him to death with my bouquet if we had to go through with the fake wedding.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed.

“THAT’S ridiculous?”

“Of course it is: Sherlock’s the drama queen–he’d have the bouquet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will continue this one, but this seemed like a good break to THIS story arc.

**Author's Note:**

> I will continue this story.  
> Obviously there are a lot of possibilities here (and smut, lets not forget smut)


End file.
